


Artfully Inept (in Love)

by inkforhumanhands



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Cameo Frank Castle, College, Crack and Angst, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Humor, Law School, M/M, POV Matt Murdock, Party, frankly Matt is an idiot in this (seriously he's so so stupid), wingman foggy nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29801754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkforhumanhands/pseuds/inkforhumanhands
Summary: Foggy steps in as wingman after he witnesses Matt bombing with a girl at a party, but what he doesn't know is that Matt's awful attempts at flirting are really thinly-veiled self-sabotage. After all, if Foggy knew that none of these girls were Matt's type, he might stumble upon the fact that Matt's type is actually just Foggy.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50
Collections: MattFoggy Server Telephone Game Event





	Artfully Inept (in Love)

**Author's Note:**

> A piece for round 1 of the Mattfoggy server telephone game event!

Artfully Inept (in Love)

“Matthew!”

Foggy’s arm appeared around Matt’s shoulders and he felt himself being shepherded away from that corner of the party. And, more relevantly, away from his conversation with Kelly from Intro to Law. The sour tang of Foggy’s nervous sweat combined with the rare deployment of his full name tipped Matt off that maybe he’d said something, as Foggy liked to put it, “just a little weird.” Unlike most instances earning him such a rebuke, however, he might actually be able to hazard a guess as to what it was this time.

Foggy guiding, they threaded their way through shouted conversations underlined by a thumping bass beat that didn’t fade no matter how far out you got from the speakers. Much like the all-consuming scent of alcohol pervading the place, it didn’t follow them so much as it stuck to their skin. They might not have been able to escape the noise, but what they did eventually shake off was anyone they knew by name.

In this more private area—if you could truly call the spot between a heated argument and an ongoing make out session private—Matt feigned ignorance. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I’ve gotta say, buddy, that was the most spectacular fail at reciprocating some flirting I have ever seen, and I have my own teenage years to compare it to.” Foggy placed a humble hand on his chest. “Allow me to drop some wisdom on you,” he said, and paused for dramatic effect. “Girls don’t like it when you ask if they’re wearing deodorant or if they just smell like that. It’s creepy.”

The rosy glow Matt had worked up over the course of a few Solo cup refills spread to the tips of his ears as he flushed with embarrassed heat. His own words repeated back to him somehow sounded even worse. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. I didn’t want you to know,” he mumbled, because it was true and because the alcohol was making it hard to be dishonest. He dipped his head downward, away from where he assumed Foggy’s prying eyes would be studying his face.

Matt hadn’t wanted Foggy anywhere near his completely deliberate campaign against others’ romantic advances. He might start asking innocent questions such as: “So what _is_ your type then?” And then before he knew it Matt would be spilling details about Foggy like an oil rig with a hole in it. It wouldn’t take much from there. The best Matt could do was hope Foggy hadn’t made any connections yet.

Foggy, for his part, merely squinted in mild confusion at Matt’s wording. “Well, I mean, yeah. I wouldn’t want _you_ to overhear _me_ bombing that badly either,” he said.

_Ah. Good._ So long as Foggy thought it was an isolated incident he appeared to be in the clear. But before Matt could get a word in edgewise to reinforce that point Foggy had voiced another thought.

“Hang on, is this why you never score with any girls despite that dopey handsome face of yours?”

Matt opened his mouth and willed himself to keep his growing panic internal. He usually thought Foggy’s thinking out loud was endearing, but when the truth his words were leading to was Matt’s own it didn’t have quite the same effect. Of course, Matt liked to think he was in fact more than adequate at flirting when he wasn’t purposely sabotaging his own efforts. But try explaining that to the living, breathing reason for said self-sabotage in a way that didn’t show all your cards. “Maybe?” he supplied lamely instead. He hoped a noncommittal answer would dissuade Foggy from developing his line of thought any further.

Foggy patted Matt on the shoulder as if to console him about his presumed lack of social skills. “Cheer up, bucko. Nothing a good old-fashioned wingman can’t solve.”

“Foggy, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Matt said a little desperately.

But Foggy only quashed his protests with a firm, “Hush,” and led Matt back out into the thick of the party, this time by the hand. Foggy’s grip, sure and warm and moderately sweaty, fit into Matt’s palm like some mystical locksmith had crafted it just for him, and for a short-lived moment Matt forgot he should be worried about where it was leading him.

“Glori!” Foggy shouted for Matt’s benefit as they approached a redhead sloshing around the punch bowl with a ladle. The plastic scraped against the sides of the glass bowl, and Matt guessed that the liquid was running low. Sure enough, only a quick splash of punch made it into Glori’s cup, and she set the ladle down having given up on getting any more with it.

“Well if it isn’t the Fogster,” she said brightly once they’d closed enough distance to be within actual hearing range.

Matt noticed a jump in her heartbeat as she greeted Foggy, and although he didn’t like making predictions, he could already tell that any sort of thing Foggy could say as wingman was unlikely to sway Glori from her preexisting crush. Maybe if he excused himself he could at least avoid wasting all their time, if not prevent Foggy’s falling in love with someone else. Matt could hear wedding bells already.

“It is indeed. And this,” Foggy said smoothly, patting Matt on the shoulder as if he were a car salesman and Matt were the car, “is my roommate, Matt. Matt, Glori’s a photography major and she likes coffee almost as much as you do.”

Matt gave her a polite nod. He thought again about inventing a reason to leave her and Foggy to it—maybe a bathroom break—but all things considered he’d rather be here with Foggy than off trying to make conversation with anyone else or, God forbid, actually hiding on the toilet. Instead, he did what he’d developed a striking precision for these past few months: ruining the mood.

“I love photography,” he said, a finger wandering up to tap the side of his glasses in case the sarcasm in his voice got lost in the music.

Foggy, predictably, produced a strangled noise next to him, but to his surprise Glori let go a laugh hearty enough to halt the conversation of a small group a few paces away. Had Matt’s strategy…backfired? Had he accidentally made himself _likeable_? Oh no, this wouldn’t do. He’d have to step up his game if he wanted to get out of this interaction before Foggy decided it was safe to leave Matt to romance Glori alone.

“You’re funny,” Glori said once her laughter had faded to its final few wheezes.

“Thanks.” Matt wracked his brain for something else to say that might turn this situation around, but it was much harder coming up with something independently as opposed to in response. Just as he was getting nowhere, the soft scrape of Glori’s lips across the rim of her plastic cup as she took a sip of her punch reminded Matt that he had more than words at his disposal. Was Matt above doing something that would objectively make him an asshole? In this instance, with his status quo with Foggy on the line, he decided that no, he was not. The only quandary remaining to him was a question of timing.

“Matt does have a great sense of humor,” Foggy chimed in, and Matt almost felt bad that he was about to squander Foggy’s efforts to hook him up. Was it really Matt’s fault, though, that he was hopelessly attracted to someone he couldn’t have? He’d like to see someone prove that in court. He never would, though, on account of his eyes, and maybe Matt really was funny.

On second thought, perhaps if he waited for an appropriate time to pull his stunt, he’d rack up too many sympathy points and leave too favorable of an impression. He should just get it over with now, comedic timing be damned. And so, noting the position of Glori’s cup in space, Matt dabbed. He flung one arm over his eyes and the other outward and straight into the path of the cup. The plastic crinkled against the impact of the side of his hand—straightened into a karate chop and nearly as devastating—and the cup pitched backwards, tipping the remainder of its contents onto Glori’s blouse. 

“Oh!” she squeaked, and fumbled to keep the cup from a bouncy fate on the floor.

She caught it, barely, but before she’d regained composure Matt was making his apology. “Oh no, I’m sorry,” he said. “That felt like I hit your cup. Did any of it get on you?”

He furrowed his brow in concern, and truly he was going to have to bring this up in confession next week. Feigning an accident probably fit squarely under _Thou shalt not lie._ Ruining an innocent girl’s shirt so he could thwart Foggy’s curiosity as to why nobody seemed to be his type? For that, there was Luke 6:31: _Do unto others as you would have them do unto you._ Though, really, if he ever found someone else hopelessly pining over their straight best friend, he’d let them toss their drink at him and then he’d buy them a replacement.

Glori brushed off Matt’s apology with grace, saying that it was, “just a spot, really.”

“You should probably go run that under some water so it doesn’t stain, right?” Matt prodded.

She made a wishy-washy sound, but with some encouragement from Foggy too, reluctantly agreed and headed off to find a tap. 

Alone again yet hemmed in on all sides by other party-goers, Foggy placed a reassuring hand on Matt’s elbow. “Okay, well that was unfortunate. Done in by a rogue dab! But we can still salvage this. Operation Wingman recommence!” he shouted, and a whoosh of air by his ear gave Matt the impression that he’d accompanied his proclamation with a fist raised high.

“Foggy,” Matt tried, “I think we can quit for tonight.”

Foggy gasped in campy shock. “Did I just hear Matt Murdock utter the Q word? I’m frantically looking around for signs of pigs flying.”

“It’s not worth it, Fogs.”

One minute Matt’s cheeks were existing freely, as cheeks do, and the next they were caught between Foggy’s palms. Foggy squeezed Matt’s face as he said, “Look, you. I love you and you’re worth it. Say you’re worth it or I’m keeping your cheeks hostage.”

Matt’s stomach flipped. He never seemed to be paying attention to heartbeats when there was actually something at stake. Even if Foggy had meant the “I love you,” though, it had surely been platonic. Nevertheless, this logic didn’t extend past Matt’s brain, and his face heated up as his emotions played out their fantasy of requited love.

“Don’t underestimate how long I’m willing to hold you here,” Foggy warned him.

“Okay, okay. I’m worth it,” Matt eked out.

“Good,” Foggy said, releasing Matt’s cheeks. “Now shall we? I think you might like Natasha.”

Matt was struck by disappointment when instead of taking his hand again Foggy merely bumped his elbow into Matt’s side in a signal for him to take it. He latched on and allowed Foggy to steer them to another corner with another girl. If Matt was going to sabotage his chances this time without resorting to more clothing violence, he’d have to exercise his patience and wait for an opening to say something irredeemably stupid. Matt braced himself for the long haul.

“Natasha’s kind of goth, I guess,” Foggy told Matt as they approached. “She’s wearing dangly spider earrings tonight it looks like.”

“Cool,” Matt said, to show he was listening.

“Hey, Natasha. How goes it?” Foggy didn’t wait for a response before he said, “This is my roommate, Matt.”

There was a pop as the suction created by the girl’s lips and the glass she had held there broke: she was drinking beer from a bottle. An IPA, probably, if Matt had to judge from the smell alone. “Hi,” she said in a voice deeper and silkier than Matt had been expecting. “Are you a law boy too, then?” she asked.

Matt chuckled at the phrasing despite himself. “I’m studying law, yes.”

“You’re international relations, right?” Foggy said when Matt failed to ask.

“Yeah, double with dance, but that’s mostly an excuse to do cross-training for gymnastics,” Natasha laughed.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were on the team!” Foggy exclaimed, and something in Matt’s chest wilted knowing how passionate Foggy was about sports with pizzazz like gymnastics and ice skating, and how long he might be stuck here. He didn’t want to judge Foggy’s wingman skills unfairly, but so far this felt like it was turning into a regular conversation between Foggy and, well, anybody, only with Matt hanging on uselessly by the side.

“Been doing it since I was a kid, so, you know,” Natasha shrugged.

And there it was. His opening.

He mustered up his best sleazebag impression. “You must be really _limber_ ,” he said, suggestive eyebrow raise and all.

Having just met her, Matt didn’t know Natasha well enough to be able to detect her metaphorical hackles rise through all this noise, but he gathered all he needed to tell that his strategy had worked from the immediate, “ _Excuse_ me?” she spat his way.

“Matt’s just joking,” Foggy interjected quickly, throwing an arm in front of Matt as if to protect him from incoming retribution. “Right, buddy? Had a little too much to drink?”

Natasha vibrated with fury. “Matt, was it? Just joking, huh? Well you can take your misogynistic ‘jokes’ and shove them up your ass!”

“Sorry,” Matt mumbled, and he really was. He’d aimed to be only a little off-putting, but had instead landed squarely in offensive. Maybe the alcohol from earlier _had_ transformed him into a real asshole. Or maybe it was this situation and the stress of it all. If only Foggy would give him up as a lost cause so he could get back to his usual business of pining in secrecy, he lamented.

“Sorry about this, Nat. I’ll, uh, see you in Punjabi,” Foggy said before pulling Matt away from her by the arm and leading him somewhere else. Surely they’d have to call off Operation Wingman after that disaster.

They came to a halt over by the far wall.

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy groaned, and Matt imagined he was holding himself back just barely from strangling him. “What was up with that?” he demanded.

Matt hung his head sheepishly. All he could think of to say was, “Sorry.”

Foggy’s hands descended on Matt’s shoulders as he groaned again. “Buddy bud bud. Is there something more to this?

Matt stiffened. “No. Why would there be?”

“Well for one,” Foggy began, “that seemed awfully out of character, don’t you think?”

“It was a bad joke, I admit.” Matt crossed his arms, and the movement caused Foggy to retract his hands from Matt’s shoulders.

“Okay,” Foggy said, fingernails scraping against the back of his neck where he scratched it. “Okay,” he said again. “Just—Just be normal when we talk to Karen. We already know her; there’s no reason to get your nerves up.”

“Wha—” Matt started to protest before Foggy cut him off.

“It’ll be fine; I promise. Now come on.”

They didn’t have far to go this time: just a few steps to Matt’s left and they were face to face with the mocha-addicted journalism major they always ran into at the campus café before their Monday nine a.m. class.

She was first to greet them. “Oh hey, you guys! Didn’t pin you for party people!”

“And we didn’t realize you drank anything besides coffee!” Foggy fired back amiably.

Karen guarded the lid of her cup with her hand and said, “How do you know this isn’t coffee?”

Matt decided to play along; he figured his whole agent of chaos routine could use a rest (and so could Foggy). “I’m guessing that’s plastic, which is an interesting choice for a hot beverage,” he said.

Foggy wasted no time in asserting triumph. “Hah! Got you there!” he said, throwing out a solitary finger gun. (How many times had Foggy narrated that before Matt could recognize it purely from context clues and a flash of movement?)

Karen giggled into her hand. “Nice try, but you both seem to have forgotten that iced coffee exists.”

“You got us there,” Matt conceded while Foggy’s shrug beside him took transitory shape in his radar.

A beat of silence passed where none of them quite knew which thread to pull to continue the conversation, until Foggy came through like the master conversationalist he claimed to be and maybe was. “You know, Matt actually has a pretty keen sense of smell. I bet if you, like, wafted some of that from where you’re standing he could tell what it really is. Then we could put an end to all this conjecture.” He opened his arms in a grand sort of gesture as he presented his idea.

Matt sighed and readied himself to perform his parlor trick. Sharp notes of vodka and orange juice already permeated the immediate air around them; he would only have to convince the others of some sort of effort on his part before announcing Karen’s drink of choice.

“Okay,” Karen said, “take a nice, deep whiff.” Her hand movement fanned the alcoholic scent toward him, like oxygen to a private flame that flared up within his nostrils. It brought minute tears to his eyes, but still he sniffed theatrically. He had an audience, after all.

He was about to regale them with the answer when the kind of guy who wore steel-toed boots to any and every occasion stomped his way over to Karen’s side. “You won’t believe what this asshole— Oh, hi,” he said, upon realizing that Karen had company.

“Hi,” said Foggy.

Karen set her free hand on the guy’s upper arm. “Oh, you guys, this is my boyfriend, Frank. Frank, these are the café regulars I was telling you about. Foggy and Matt.”

“Nice to meet you,” Frank said, raising the circular bottle of whiskey he held as if he were toasting to their acquaintance and then taking a swig.

Both Matt and Foggy said likewise, although Matt caught the sliver of untruth where it dressed up Foggy’s words in false enthusiasm. A third strike for Operation Wingman and its commanding officer. He didn’t have to wonder for long how Foggy would react to this development, because Foggy set to beating a quick retreat once their introductions had played out.

“I think I need a refill. It was nice seeing you, Karen. Frank. Maybe we’ll catch back up later. Matt, you coming?”

“Screwdriver, by the way,” Matt said as he took hold of Foggy’s elbow, and they left Karen to gape in amazement.

“Oh my God. Frank, he just—”

Foggy patted Matt’s hand as they walked away. “Good work, buddy. We’ve really gotta come up with a way to scam people with that nose of yours. Didn’t realize she had a boyfriend though.”

“I think that was a sign, Foggy. I think I’ve had enough partying for one night, anyway.”

Foggy stopped walking and swung around to face Matt. “What? No, come on. Our night’s barely started.”

Matt made a face.

“Okay, look. Let’s go get a breath of fresh air and then come back and give it the ol’ college try. What do you say?” Foggy pleaded.

Dramatic or not, Matt thought he’d rather die than continue to pretend to flirt badly in front of Foggy. He acquiesced to the getting fresh air part, intending to wiggle out of his commitment to return later.

They headed out the front of the brownstone that had been taken over by college kids and sat down on the narrow concrete steps. The early spring cold seeped its way through the seat of his jeans, and Matt shivered. He tucked his hands under his armpits. “I miss the sun from earlier,” he said.

“’Tis chilly,” Foggy agreed. He rubbed his hands and blew on them. “It’s nice though. Still can’t see the stars, but the moon is out.”

Matt smiled. “What phase?”

“It’s just a sliver, but in the way where you can see that the rest of it’s gone dark. It’s got personality; I like it.”

_And I like you_ , echoed the part of Matt’s brain that was still a little drunk. Matt’s pulse sped up as he first considered linking his arm with Foggy’s and then found himself actually doing it. Emboldened when Foggy didn’t recoil, he tilted his head to rest on his friend’s shoulder. Foggy’s temple met the top of Matt’s head as he leaned into the token of intimacy. Warmth flooded Matt’s chest, and the noises from the party going on behind them dimmed. For all that they would surely catch their death of cold if they stayed out here long, Matt wished he could stretch this moment so that they’d never have to separate.

Foggy spoke again, jarring Matt out of his thoughts. “Matt, you know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yes?” Matt said, not sure where Foggy was going with his question.

“I just want you to know that you deserve to be happy. This whole thing probably seems silly to you, I know. But it’s important to me that other people know how awesome you are.”

“And I appreciate it, I really do,” Matt said, a tiny spark of guilt shooting through his gut as he thought about all the purposeful missteps he’d taken.

“Just. Just listen, okay? You—you’re passionate and smart, so so smart. You’re funny. You care too much about everything.” Foggy paused. “I guess that last one falls under ‘passionate,’ huh? And you’re eloquent, which I am not, apparently,” he mused.

Matt buried his face in Foggy’s shoulder. “You’re being embarrassing,” he groaned to cover how secretly pleased he was to have Foggy’s attention.

“I’m not done!” Foggy laughed. “And I know you can’t see yourself so like you don’t know, but, dude, you’re hot!”

Matt blushed what he was sure could only be a profound red. He knew he shouldn’t take Foggy’s hyperbole seriously, that it would only thrust him deeper into the throes of doomed yearning. But he couldn’t help it.

Foggy went on. “You’re like—you’d do well in Hollywood. Honestly that’s a euphemism. I don’t know where I’m going with this as I think you can tell. This was supposed to be a pep talk. Now I’m just objectifying you. _Anyway_ ,” he said with an exaggerated clearing of his throat, “the point is. We’re gonna go back in there and make it happen for you, and it’s even gonna be easy!”

Of course Foggy’s talk had been leading here. It wasn’t like Matt hadn’t known it. Still, it had been nice to bask in Foggy’s words away from all that. But in terms of stopping this charade from getting further out of hand, it was now or never.

Matt picked his head up off of Foggy’s shoulder and took a breath. “Foggy, I need to tell you something,” he said. His heart climbed into his mouth, and it sounded like Foggy’s did something similar. He couldn’t blame Foggy for an anxious response to a lead-in like that. Hell, _he_ was afraid of what he was going to say.

“I haven’t been…entirely truthful,” he said. “I should have said something instead of letting you keep going.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, it was on purpose. The dab. What I said to Natasha. I’ve been sabotaging myself. Because I, uh,” he gulped. “There’s already somebody. Somebody I like, I mean.”

“Oh,” Foggy said. He scooted over to put an inch of space between them. The chill night air rushed in, sensing fresh blood.

Matt didn’t need super hearing to read Foggy’s disappointment. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to have fun setting me up,” he said.

“Yeah.” Foggy hunched his shoulders and blew on his hands again, and Matt almost missed the strange pitter-patter of his heart for the noise.

He hesitated. “Unless…there’s something else?” He held his breath while he waited for an answer, attention wandering to the sweep of Foggy’s tongue across his lips as he wet them nervously before it came back to his burning lungs. “Foggy?”

“It’s nothing,” Foggy said, but his words came out faster than truth ever did.

“Is it?” Matt cocked his head to the side to signal his doubt.

Foggy produced something midway between a sigh and a laugh. “There’s no getting past you, is there?” he grumbled.

“Nope.” Matt beamed.

“I guess I haven’t been entirely truthful with you either,” Foggy began. If Matt had thought their hearts speedy before, it was only because he hadn’t yet experienced this moment: Foggy’s pulse beat out a rapid cadence, and Matt’s own set to marching.

Foggy continued. “I know the whole point was to set you up, so believe me when I say I know I’m a hypocrite. I just…it kinda sucks knowing there _is_ someone you like when I—”

Forget hearts. There was a battering ram inside Matt’s chest doing its best to shatter his ribs. His voice came out hoarse. “When you what, Foggy?” A chill wind caressed the back of his neck, and his hair there stood up.

Foggy swallowed. “I don’t want to make things weird,” he said, shaking his head.

“What has this night been if not weird? I dabbed,” Matt reassured him, even as his insides roiled with uncertainty.

“Okay, here goes,” Foggy said through a shaky breath outward. “Matt, I like you. I know you’ve already got someone that you like, and, knowing you, she’s probably lovely and selfless and all that, so obviously I don’t, like, expect anything. I think I just need to process and be disappointed, is what I think I’m trying to say.”

Matt sat there, stunned, as he listened to Foggy ramble. Maybe he had misheard, or— Foggy couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying; it didn’t make any sense. Matt was the one with the crush. The hypocrite. The one whose actions rang false.

“Foggy, you dumbass,” he said.

“Hey, now,” said Foggy, a little hurt-sounding.

“No. Foggy,” Matt said, fumbling around to find Foggy’s wrists and grab hold of them, “it’s you.”

“…What is?”

“You’re the one I like.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Matt let Foggy sit with that for a second. He listened to Foggy blink several times in mild confusion.

“No offense, but I’m not sure I’ve come out of this any less sure than I was before that you have no idea how to flirt,” Foggy said, the back end of his statement devolving into laughter.

Matt laughed with him. “Good thing it doesn’t seem to matter. Unless…,” he faltered, “you’ve changed your mind?”

“As if, you goof.”

Foggy flipped his wrists up out of Matt’s grip so he could lace their fingers together. He leaned forward to close the gap between their bodies, and Matt, compelled by some sort of magic, met him in the middle. They kissed, and it was light and sweet and—like an intro paragraph to one of their practice case briefings—the precursor to many more.


End file.
